


“My Dreams Under Your Feet”

by Polgarawolf



Series: Dreams [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Advice, Alternate Timeline(s), Alternate Universe - Supernatural, Angel of the Lord, Angelic Grace, Angelic Machinations, Angelic Script, Angelic Visitation Via Dreams, Angels, Angels Are Dicks (Except Castiel), Angels are Dicks, Anger, Apocalypse, Archangels, Armageddon, Attempted Blackmail, Attempted Coercion, Attempted Seduction, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood Magic, Brothers, Castiel's Trenchcoat, Choices, Confusion, Croatoan Virus, Demon Blood Addiction, Demonic Machinations, Demons, Devil’s Trap, Devotion, Dreams, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Fallen Angels, Families of Choice, Family, Family Drama, Family Secrets, Family Work, Father of Lies, Fear, Fighting the Good Fight, Free Will, Friendship, Frustration, Ghosts, Grace - Freeform, Grace Sharing, Grief/Mourning, Hell, Hope, Hunter's Lore, Hunters, Hunting, Kidnapping, Lies, Loss, Love, Magic, Manipulations, Masks, Meat Suits for Angels/Demons, Mindfuck, Morning Star, Nephilim, Other, Pain, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Prophecy, Prophets, Protection/Wards/Aid for Sleeping, Protective Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Protective Sigils, Protective Symbols, Protectiveness, Questions, Reconciliation, Relationship Advice, Revelations, Righteous Man, Ritual Bindings, Rituals, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Seals Around Hell/Lucifer, Secrets, Summoning Circles, Supernatural Elements, Support, Sword of Michael, Team Free Will, Temptation, Tricksters, Trust, Unconventional Families, Vessels, Wards, Wings, Worry, adoration, faith - Freeform, references to past torture, trickery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-12
Updated: 2009-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:07:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polgarawolf/pseuds/Polgarawolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Summary:</b> Just when Sam Winchester thinks he’s finally getting used to having an angel of the Lord visiting in his dreams, he finds himself actually sharing a room with the angel while he’s carrying on a conversation with Sam’s brother . . . and if that weren’t strange and awkward enough, there’s also the fact that Dean seems to think they can just go back to being like they were, before Lucifer’s rising (even though that obviously didn’t work for them. Hence, the freakin’ Apocalypse!), and that he still doesn’t trust Sam to even know what’s best for him . . . </p><p><b>Warning: </b>Apparently, I am writing an on-going series of linked stories, (mostly) in response to the individual episodes of season five. This particular story is meant to function both as a kind of sequel to the previous four stories I’ve written for <i>Supernatural</i>, “What Dreams May Come,” “Unless First We Dream,” “Dreams Are Free,” and “Dreams Shall Never Die,” and as a sort of continuation of and between-the-scenes addition to season five’s fifth episode, “Fallen Idol.” This series may or may not continue to progress much as it already has, depending largely on the whims of the muses and the state of real life!</p>
            </blockquote>





	“My Dreams Under Your Feet”

**Author's Note:**

> **Author’s Notes: 1).** As with the other four stories in this series, I have no idea where this story came from. Half of it actually came to me prior to viewing episode five, and the rest pretty much flowed straight from having seen the episode. Aside from the whole Castiel visiting Sam in his dreams thing, it’s canon-compliant (as far as I can tell) up through the fifth episode of season five (and could be considered at least semi-spoilerish for the show up through that episode) and I suppose could be read as (kind of) gen, though frankly the vibe that I get from Castiel when I’m writing in this particular ’verse feels anything _but_ gen and Sam’s pretty damned sure that an angel of the Lord is not only in love with but adores and reveres his brother and that his brother’s in the first stages of learning how to have enough faith to return the sentiment. 
> 
> **2).** The notion that angels would be able to destroy a demonic sickness infecting a human host much as they might do with a demon possessing a human and that there would be a cure for the Croatoan plague based partially on blessed/holy water and partially on protective/defensive symbols is entirely my own idea. It’s very likely to be Jossed, but I couldn’t resist added it in here, because it makes so much sense to me that it should be possible to purge the virus from a person like one would a demon – either using angelic means or more mundane magical means, for another human – considering that the sickness is demonic in nature. (After all, if demons could wipe out whole human settlements this way pretty much at will, why would they refrain from doing so, prior to the Apocalypse, unless they knew that there was a way for the sickness to be combated?) To me, this solution seems like an imminently rational extension of already proven methods of protection and defense/offense in the struggle against demonic forces, as established by the mythology of the series. If folks don’t like it . . . well, given that this series seems to be drifting a bit further away from the established canonical scenes of the show, those folks can always consider this to be AU, if it’ll make ’em feel better about it!
> 
>  **3).** Erhm, despite Sam’s ginormous tendency towards stupidly destructive levels of self-centeredness (which is, as mentioned in the notes for the previous stories, the reason I’ve always primarily been a Dean girl and not a Sam girl), I do not believe that he is actually a bad (much less an evil) person – just a little bit spoiled and selfish and occasionally phenomenally stupid. He’s _human_ , in other words, folks. And, given how much he cares about his brother – how hugely protective of his brother he can (when not being a selfish dick or addled by power and demon blood and desire for revenge at all costs) be (which only makes sense, given that Dean’s pretty much all he has) – it only makes sense that Sam would have a vested interest in keeping his brother happy, as well as healthy, sane, and safe (at least as much as humanly possible). 
> 
> So even though Sam may occasionally resent the hell out of Dean for, well, treating him like the little brother (and essentially the surrogate child) he is, and even though quite often he may long to get out from under Dean’s extremely long shadow and learn how to stand on his own two feet, I think it’s safe to say that not only would Sam react ferociously, pitilessly, and relentlessly, if he ever suspected someone capable of hurting his brother to be planning to cause Dean harm of any kind (be it physical, mental, or emotional), he would also do his level best to take time out from his own problems (even one as huge as apparently being Lucifer’s chosen vessel) to help anyone he suspected of being capable of making Dean happy and/or of making Dean’s life easier. Even (or perhaps _especially_ ) if the individual in question were actually an angel capable of dragging a soul up out of Hell and putting it back into a miraculously healed and living body . . . 
> 
> **4).** As I’ve said in the author’s notes for all of my other stories for _Supernatural_ , this is kind of a strange fandom for me, in that, since the show has largely refused to allow the main characters to have (or keep) any romantic attachments or possible romantic attachments that aren’t either broken by death or else what some would consider blasphemous/unnatural in some way, I’ve managed to be a fan for years without ever being tempted to seriously ship anyone on the show, before. The appearance of Castiel on the show and the dynamic of his evolving relationship with Dean, though, has kind of thrown me for a loop . . . and that rule of no shipping straight out the window, as I find myself not only drawn more and more to the possibility of a Dean/Castiel pairing but actually having my mental arms twisted by one of my muses so that I will write stories for this possible pairing.
> 
> (To be continued below!)

**"My Dreams Under Your Feet"**

  
  
  
For once, Sam Winchester knows absolutely that he is _not_ dreaming.

He’s too damned busy pretending to be asleep to be dreaming, for one thing, and the bed’s just not all that comfortable, for another; plus, as far as Sam’s concerned, the musty smell of the motel room is entirely too real and way too disgusting for his brain to ever manage to replicate in any kind of dream, be it doing double duty as a route for angelic visitation or not.

So. Not dreaming. For once. Laying quietly on his bed in the motel room chosen by his brother, eyes shut and breath coming slowly, deeply, and evenly, regular and extended enough to (hopefully) mimic that of deep sleep, waiting to hear Dean come to bed before he’ll permit himself to drop off, yes. But definitely not dreaming. (Although, God, he _really_ would like to at least hope that maybe some of the funky, dusty, almost mold y stale stench permeating the room – including his bed – is possibly only partially his imagination, and not entirely real!) And this despite the fact that it has been a hideously long day and he’s so damn tired that he’d probably have some trouble focusing properly, even if he were to give up the act and open up his eyes.

In spite of the familiarity of the situation – him and Dean and a cheap motel with two queen-sized beds that’ve obviously seen far better days – everything feels more than a little bit unreal, and so he pushes back from sleep’s beckoning embrace, fighting not to give in to the promise of darkness (and, if he’s _very_ lucky, forgetfulness, or at least absence of nightmares), unwilling to tumble down into the blanketing blackness until the sound of his brother’s breath returns to the room and reassures him that he’s no longer alone, that he’s not just dreaming that Dean’s allowed him to return, to guard his back and help fight against Lucifer and all the forces of the Apocalypse.

Dean let Sam have the shower first (probably figuring that exhaustion would catch up with him and pull him under with clothes still on and the grime of the roam not just intact but untouched, if he had to wait for a turn in the shower, and dreading a bitchfest about it later on), and he’s been in there for so long since Same came out that he’s starting to worry (a little) that something may’ve happened (even though the doors and walls in this place are so flimsy that, logically, Sam knows he would’ve heard it if anything had happened).

When the door finally opens and Dean comes out talking – voice pitched low enough that Sam has to strain to understand him, Dean obviously trying to be quite so he won’t wake him – he relaxes, thinking that Bobby must’ve called to make sure Sam got there okay. But then he hears an odd rustling noise, and knows at once that Dean isn’t alone, even before Castiel speaks, rough low voice rumbling, "I am glad that Sam is with you again. You are stronger together than alone. And perhaps you will speak to him of Zachariah, as it appears to make you uncomfortable to speak to me of what happened."

"Look, Cas, it’s not that I don’t trust you, alright? It’s just – it was ugly, okay? I don’t even want to _think_ about it, much less talk about it," Dean’s voice murmurs (with surprising softness) in reply, half huffy exasperation and half awkward but seemingly heartfelt apology.

There’s another rustle – trench coat or (usually) invisible wings, Sam’s not sure which (and isn’t at all certain he wants to know, either. He remembers his half-glimpsed impression of those wings, and he’s just as soon not even _think_ about the idea that some part of those things – of such an obvious sign of Castiel’s literal inhumanness, of his angelic nature – is somehow present in the shadows around his so very human-looking vessel) – and then Castiel quietly asks, "You _do_ know that it was not real, whatever Zachariah showed you, don’t you? Dean?"

There’s a long pause (only half filled with another abortive rustle, as though Castiel began to move and stopped himself for some reason), and then, finally, "How do you _know_ that? How can you be _sure_? If angels can take people to the past, then why not the future?" Dean’s voice is urgent, anguished, near to breaking with strain, and Sam has to clamp his teeth tightly together to keep from betraying himself by growling in anger at that prick Zachariah.

"Dean, the future is not set in stone. God gave His children free will, which means choice, and so nothing can be predicted with absolute certainty. A prophet’s visions are as close to absolute as it is possible to get, and, as you know, even those can be circumnavigated by those determined enough to change things. God is the only one who can see and know all things, and even He will not interfere with the decisions of His children. Zachariah cannot have taken you to the future for the very simple reason that it does not yet exist. He may have attempted to show you a _possible_ future, but I doubt very much if he could have found a prophet able to see so far into the future as that. Odds are that he simply placed you within an illusion, in much the same way a Trickster playing a game towards a certain desired end might do with a chosen victim. In all likelihood, you never physically left your motel room, prior to my intervention. Whatever it was that you saw – whatever you think you experienced – it was not real. Zachariah designed it for one purpose and one alone: to attempt to force you to consent to becoming Michael’s vessel."

If anything, Castiel’s deep voice is even more urgent than Dean’s, the words all but weighted down with his desire to make Dean listen to him and believe, so serious and earnest that Sam finds himself fighting the urge to nod, persuaded to agree through the sheer power of Castiel’s voice, as though he didn’t already know the truth. Dean, though, just prevaricates, low voice declaring, "I don’t know, Cas. It felt awfully real for just a trick."

There’s a long stretch of silence, after that admission, and finally, unable to take it anymore, Sam decides to risk cracking one eye slightly, to see if he can get some kind of idea of what’s going on. Dean and Castiel are in between the beds, Dean looking freshly scrubbed and still a little damp around the edges, old faded flannel sleep pants in muted shades of blue and off-white riding a little low on his hips, blue-grey tee-shirt clinging with damp, a little too small for everyday wear, a stripe of skin flashing between its lower hem and the top of his pants. Castiel is in his usual, standing so close to Dean that Sam’s a little surprised that Dean isn’t protesting over the invasion of his personal space, and the both of them are close enough to Sam that he can see the slight flicker of his eyes, as he tries to avoid looking at that stripe of bared skin. His hands are clenched tight at his sides and (luckily for Sam, since his brother is of course the one who’s more or less facing in Sam’s direction) Dean is looking down at those fists with a look almost of bemusement, surprise wiping out what would have likely otherwise been a torn, pained (painful, for both Sam and Castiel) expression.

"Cas?" Dean asks after a few more beats of silence, evidently startling the angel, whose head snaps up so quickly it looks as though the motion could’ve given him whiplash, if he were human. "You alright?"

Castiel hesitates a moment, and then quietly admits, "I am . . . unused to feeling both helpless and furious. You need not worry yourself. It will pass."

Dean frowns, and his voice is softer and slightly hesitant when he replies, insisting, "You weren’t helpless, Cas. You save me from him. And, well – look, you know you don’t have to be pulling all that badass angel-fu mojo-powered stuff all the time to be helpful, right?" he asks, frowning, voice gaining in urgency. "I mean, I’m just glad to have you. On my side. Helping. Willing to help, because you believe in me, even when no one else does, even when it’s absolutely insane and anyone else in the world would know better than to trust in me."

Dean actually steps a little closer to Castiel, at that, clearly not all that sure about what he should say but nonetheless almost painfully earnest as he tries to reassure the angel. He hesitates a moment, then, obviously unsure if he should continue or not and not at all certain just how to proceed, before finally, nervously, reaching out and touching the nearest of Castiel’s still tightly clenched hands, laying his own hand gently around that fist.

Castiel startles like a bird awakened by a sudden burst of sound from a deep sleep (there is entirely too much noise, for how little he actually moves, and Sam finds himself wondering why he hasn’t noticed, before, how much nosie Castiel actually makes, when he moves quickly and/or suddenly enough for the motion to be unexpected, the rustling all out of proportion, even for that trench coat, more like the sound of mantling wings and ruffled feathers than anything else), flinching back, and Dean immediately starts to withdraw, eyes cutting to the side, face tight in a way Sam has learned (through much trial and error over the years) means disappointed regret and shame, low voice nearly as rough as Castiel’s as he quickly mutters, "Sorry. Angels like their personal space, too, huh? I get it. My mistake."

The motion of Castiel’s hand as it whips out and wraps itself around Dean’s wrist is so fast that Sam blinks, mouth falling open a little, before he remembers he’s supposed to be lying still and avoiding drawing attention to the fact that he’s not really asleep. Dean goes absolutely still (like someone has rammed a knife into his back and he’s so shocked by the coldness of the blade that he can’t feel the pain quite yet), eyes wide and dark with something that looks awfully close to either terror or exultation (something mindless and encompassing), face emptied of expression by shock. (And the thought occurs to Sam, with a stridency that’s almost borderline hysterical, that even if Dean hasn’t, Castiel has apparently gotten over his reluctance to touch, judging by how quickly he reached out and how securely he is now holding on to Dean.)

Something about the sight of Castiel’s hand curved around Dean’s wrist makes Sam feel breathless and strange, like he got up in the middle of the night and went to trace a familiar path from bed to bathroom, only to find a chasm yawning wide beneath his feet on the third step. (The angel’s skin is very pale against Dean’s tan, his hand stretched to shape itself to cover as much of that golden skin as possible, long white fingers lying like the pieces of some cleverly articulated work of art around and about the joint, like a very strange bracelet . . . or a carving of bone.) Dean stares down at that hand on him, not moving, even when Castiel steps closer, his body drawing so near that the edges of his trench coat brush up against Dean’s legs.

The touch of the coat seems to startle him a little. He makes an abortive noise – it might’ve started out as a gasp, as an explosive exhale, or as something almost like a dry sob – but doesn’t otherwise move, even when Castiel inches even closer, until the toes of his shoes and Dean’s socked feet are almost touching. "Dean." There’s a touch of heavenly power in the low rumble of Castiel’s voice, and Sam reflexively starts to flinch before he remembers that Castiel’s his friend, now, and that they’re allies now (real allies, not just thrown together because Sam is Dean’s brother and it’s Castiel’s job to look after and guide Dean), and that Castiel (probably, anyway) wouldn’t ever willingly hurt him (not anymore, not since they fumbled their way to an understanding). "Please, don’t pull away. You only startled me."

The abortive noise repeats, shaped around a single syllable. _"Cas."_

"I do believe in you. I do trust you. I have faith in you, Dean. I made my choice. Nothing will change that. Nothing that happens to me can change that. I am my Father’s son, and I have chosen to follow you, of my own free will. I _will not_ turn away. No matter what is taken from me, Dean, I have chosen this path, and I will stay upon it, until the end, or until I am ended. I do not know exactly what Zachariah showed you – though I can guess at the shape of some of it, from your response – but I promise you that it is not true and it will _never_ become the truth. I am here with you. _Sam_ is here with you."

Castiel’s voice blazes with fervor, burns with an echoing roar of power, and Sam freezes in place on the bed, not even daring to breathe, when the white hand not clasped with terrifyingly possessiveness around his brother’s wrist unfolded from the angel’s side and gestures towards the bed, towards _Sam_ , palm open and fingers extended in offering, in invitation, like he knows Sam is awake (and, hell, _Hell_ – or Heaven, rather – he probably _does_ , all things considered) and wouldn’t be at all disturbed if Sam sat up on the bed to reinforce his point, to join in the conversation (the argument) and help him sway Dean, bring him around, reassure him that what he saw (what he went through) wasn’t real and that Zachariah’s really no better than a Trickster . . . the implication being that he won’t even deserve so much as a warning before they hunt him down and deal with him as they have with every other evil fucker they’ve met along their path.

(And, okay, the idea that Cas is furious enough to approve of that kind of response to what Zachariah did? It freaks Sam right the Hell on out. Because he gets that Castiel loves Dean. Really, he does. Just like he gets that Castiel believes he did the right thing and is still doing the right thing, for having chosen Dean and for continuing to choose Dean. But the angel apparently being fine with Sam and Dean hunting down and killing his former superior, when only a few days ago he didn’t even want to admit to Sam that there are ways for humans to kill angels? It’s more than a little disconcerting. And it disturbs the ever-living crap out of him that, in spite of that fact, there’s a small voice down deep in his mind somewhere that’s screaming victory and bloodthirsty approval to the high heavens, like Castiel’s apparent decision to put Zachariah on their hunting list is the best thing anyone’s come up with since the invention of coffee.)

And Castiel is still speaking, each word blazing into existence like lightning, tearing through the room like thunder, the angel no longer bothering to try to hide or soften the edge of overwhelming _power_ that’s crammed down inside the human body that’s currently holding him.

"The illusionary future that Zachariah crafted was meant to wound you so deeply that you would not recover, and would turn to Michael in desperation. But you are far stronger than my former superior has ever given you credit for, and you would not be cowed. You refused to give in. As you have refused before. As I believe you will continue to refuse, no matter what may happen. You have dedicated yourself to this battle and the Hosts of Heaven have, by and large, proven themselves unworthy to be accepted as your allies, much less worthy of your obedience, your acquiescence, your _consent_. You will not be forced. You will _not_ give in. And I tell you now that you should not let him have the satisfaction of hurting you so with his illusions, his lies. Do not permit Zachariah – he who has proven his unworthiness, time and again – to cause you to falter, or suffer doubt. _You must not let him hurt you like this._ I promise you – I swear to you, Dean, on my honor, on everything that I am, as my Father’s son and as _the one who has chosen you_ – whatever he did, it was not to show you truth. And we _will not_ allow his lies to become truth. What you saw, what you were made to believe you were experiencing, _it will not happen_. Not _ever_. If we must, the three of us alone," the hand not circled around Dean’s wrist gestures again, the motion mesmerically graceful, and Sam goggles helplessly with the one slitted open eye (that small distant voice in the back of his mind almost hysterically grateful that Dean’s too busy staring at the other hand, still clapped around his wrist, to notice that Sam is all but gaping like a loon and most _definitely_ not asleep) as Castiel circles that hand to indicate Sam, himself, and Dean, "will keep it from happening. Dean."

The angel says his brother’s name as though he might be able to press belief into him – infuse him with truth, with trust, with _faith_ – through sheer dint of will alone. And hell, maybe he can – or maybe he could, if given enough time and repetition. Dean has lots of walls with even more barricades and shields and reinforced barriers behind those, and Castiel seems to be scaling and/or worming his way through all of those defenses combined mostly through sheer stubbornness, helped along by maybe just a dash of toleration through proximity, like being around the angel for so long is somehow blunting the edges of Dean’s many and varied defense mechanisms and slowly but surely peeling away the many layers of makes (most of them sheer bravado and stubborn refusal to admit of any kind of need or desire for help).

And that is a _good_ thing – hell, that is a _hopeful_ thing, because if Cas is already making this much progress with Dean, then maybe his brother has a chance of making it through this intact, and maybe Sam will make it, too, despite himself (in spite of what he so manifestly deserves), if only because Dean will drag him kicking and screaming through the Apocalypse and on out the other side of it by the scruff of his neck, if he has to, if he’s still around to do so – but it doesn’t quite stop the frisson of coldness working its way down his back, if only because, well, okay, so maybe he is still kind of freaked out about the whole idea of his brother and a freakin’ _angel of the Lord_. In theory, he may approve of the idea – may even desperately want it to work out, if only because Dean deserves at least _one_ truly good thing in his life, dammit, one person who’s chosen him and refuses to back down or apologize or let go or turn away and damn the consequences – but in practice? In reality? It’s kinda hard not to be at least a little bit freaked out by a being (not a human, but a being, an _angel_ , and a resurrected one, at that) who’s bending quite that much focus and power and trust and belief and faith and love- _love_ - **love** - ** _love_** - ** _love_** on _Sam’s brother_.

This is especially true considering the fact that Dean looks about half a heartbeat from either a full-on freak-out or else from throwing the kind of hellacious fit that, rather than leading to temper tantrums, usually ends in the kind of physical fight that leaves bodies stretched out groaning on the ground or (if belonging to particularly nasty or not entirely human folks) beaten into unconsciousness, so they can be dealt with properly. His face is still disturbingly blank, but the pupils of his eyes have gone huge, swallowing the color of his eyes (and if not for the whites around them, it would be a hideously familiar sight, the dark banner of Hell sweeping across and claiming human eyes as something else, something _other_ , something demonic), and there is a slight glimmer of teeth from between barely open lips, like Dean is pulling back on a growl but either too pissed or too terrified to keep the snarl from showing. And Castiel (the angelic _idiot_ ), instead of backing off, is somehow or another managing to edge even _closer_ to Dean, the hand around Dean’s wrist manipulating his arm, his body, so that he can edge in sideways a bit nearer.

"Dean." Castiel repeats his brother’s name as though the single syllable were the highest form of worship (and God, _God_ , maybe it is, for Cas), standing so damned close to Dean that the distance separating their bodies is more a matter of technicality and maybe the thinnest layer of air than anything like real distance, and Sam is really and trulystarting to think that he’s majorly screwed the pooch this time and would be far, far better off if he really were asleep just about the time a shiver ripples its way (only it’s more like rips its way, really, given how unnaturally still Dean is) through Dean’s body and Sam receives one of the bigger shocks in his recent memory (well, aside from Lilith being the final Seal and Castiel being insanely in love with Dean and finding the freakin’ _Devil_ in his bed, the Father of Lies having apparently thrown over the idea of impersonating his dead girlfriend to go for broke in the appealing for consent from a potential vessel category).

Dean doesn’t freak out and start yelling or skip straight past the yelling and go for the whole beating the crap out of the other guy option or even finish the snarl with a twist out and away from Castiel and that hand on his wrist. Instead, in the wake of that almost painful looking shiver, he – he – well, he _relaxes_ , is what he does, shoulders bowing slightly (like a weight’s been lifted from them), body still shivering ever so slightly as he tilts slightly to the side and leans in, somehow or another managing to not _quite_ touch Castiel, even though he’s curling in so close to him that Sam knows his breath has to washing hot and damp up against the angel’s face.

The question, when it comes, is more breath and air than sound, and, if it weren’t for the fact that Dean’s tilted just enough to let Sam see that his mouth’s moving, he’s not sure he would’ve caught the word at all. "Yeah?"

Castiel’s voice doesn’t exactly tremble with the amount of unadulterated earnestness and power he crams into it, but it comes about as close as humanly (or angelically) possible when he replies, "If you have any faith in me at all, if you are willing to believe anything that I say to you, if you can trust in anything at all that I tell you, then trust me enough to listen to me now and believe that what I tell you is the truth and have faith, Dean. What Zachariah did to you, he did in an attempt to break you. It was a lie – a trick – the same kind of illusions that Tricksters specialize in. That so-called future _was not_ real. It _is not_ real. It will not _ever_ be real. Zachariah may have woven certain facts and speculations he is aware of, regarding Lucifer’s plans, into the illusion, and he may even have thought to include a few of the old possibilities of how things might go, based on fragmentary visions of a prophet. But it was not real and it held nothing of truth in it and we will _not_ permit anything like what he inflicted on you to come to pass. Do you understand? Do you believe me?"

"I – " Dean’s voice cracks, and he pauses, shaking a little bit again, nervously licking his lips before breathing out, "alright. Yeah. Yes. I guess so. Not real. Trickster shit. Okay. Alright. If you say so, if you’re _sure_ , then – then okay. You _are_ sure, right?"

"I am positive. I would not have said what I have, if I were not."

Dean huffs out a breath that might’ve almost doubled as a choked sob. "Alright. Alright," he repeats, a little bit more firmly, as though he’s convincing himself a little bit more of his belief with each repetition. "So it was all just more bullshit mind-fuckery to try to get me to give in to the whole Michael thing. That’s . . . better than the alternative. Except . . . does this mean I can’t trust anything I might’ve thought could maybe be useful?"

Sam can see just enough of Castiel’s face to know that the angel is narrowing his eyes. "What do you think you could learn from that unworthy one’s lies?"

Dean tilts his head, lips twitching towards an expression that’s almost a smirk. "So he’s the ‘unworthy one,’ now, is he? It’s kinda biblical sounding, but I think I like it. It’s less likely to offend anyone in accidental earshot than fucktard motherless sonuvabitch dead-fuckin’-angel-flying, anyway. And I _am_ going to have to find a way to kill Zachariah now, you know. Or else you’re gonna hafta do it. ’Cause I gotta tell ya, Cas, I am _not_ willing to leave that bastard out there at my back anymore. Not if he’s organizing the whacked-out nutjob right-wing fanatic religious fringe so he can screw with us more than he already has. He’s too damn dangerous. I know he’s your brother and all, but – "

Castiel interrupts, flatly declaring, "I understand. And I agree. He is too dangerous."

Dean blinks, open his mouth, stops, blinks again, frowns, edges ever so slightly back from Castiel (body straightening until he’s no longer leaning in towards him) and, a little warily, notes, "Awfully agreeable of you to be so . . . agreeable. Why the sudden hate-on for ol’ Zach?"

Sam can see _just_ enough of Castiel’s face to make out the enormously forbidding frown hardening and creasing his features, and has to fight against the urge to shiver, even though he knows Castiel is just furious with Zachariah and (probably) wouldn’t ever knowingly, willingly hurt Sam for any reason. "He has hurt you. _Repeatedly._ He is the one who passed the orders that made the whole of my former garrison complicit with the breaking of enough of the Seals to permit Lucifer to rise. And he forced me to do things that I am positive ran against our Father’s will, things that caused harm to you and your brother and hurt you both greatly. He has not only been grossly derelict in his duties, he has been as helpful to Lucifer’s forces as if he were truly working for them, as though he believed as Uriel did, that Lucifer _deserved_ to rise, as if God’s punishment for the Morning Star’s crimes were unjust. His actions have caused the side of the righteous incalculable damage. He cannot be permitted to continue on the course he has chosen. I am sorry if my saying this disturbs you. But I will not permit him to harm you or your brother again. He has already done far too much harm to you both." Castiel closes the distance that Dean has placed between them, angling himself gracefully to permit him to draw closer, head tilted so that he is gazing up at Dean earnestly, seriously, a trace of that earlier terrible frown furrowing his brow. "But you are avoiding my question. What did you hope could be learnt from the lies that unworthy one has forced you to suffer through?"

Sounding a little bit uncomfortable (as if he’s not all that sure he really wants to know the answer to his question), Dean replies by asking the angel, "How much do you know about my life before . . . well, _before_?"

Sam freezes, afraid that Castiel will respond to that question much as he did to a similar question he asked the angel and freak Dean out so much that all of the progress they seem to be making will be lost. But the angel surprises him (in a totally good way) by calmly responding, "A great deal, Dean. Your family has long been of interest to my garrison. We keep track of those whose bloodlines render them fit to be vessels."

"Ah. Well, that’s kinda creepy stalkerish. But beside the point, at this point, I guess. See, ah, the thing is, there was this little town in Oregon that had been infected by this demonic virus, because of the involvement of a demon by the name of Croatoan, and, well it got ugly. Part of the future – sorry, the _illusion_ – " he amends, when Castiel’s frown immediately deepens, "that Zachariah showed me was similar, in an exponentially apocalyptically worse kinda way. The Devil was conquering the Earth slowly, for some reason, and using the same kind of demonic plague to break humanity down so we couldn’t really organize properly to fight the sadistic ass."

"And you fear that his tactics in our future will be similar. I understand," Castiel allows, inclining his head a little in acknowledgment. "There was a similar concern, once, among the members of my garrison. But that was before it was discovered that this particular plague has a relatively simple cure."

Dean doesn’t quite gape, but it’s a close thing. "A cure? That shit has a cure? Honestly?"

"Yes. An angel can burn out the disease, much as we can destroy a demon in possession of a human host. Other humans can end the effectiveness of the disease by administering holy water in combination with a specific series of symbols, to drive out that which is demonic in the infection. The rite is similar to an exorcism. I can teach it to you and Sam, if you wish, and you can pass it on to the other hunters, in case they should need the knowledge," Castiel offers.

" _Hell_ , yeah, I _wish_! God, Cas! That – that’d be really helpful. _Thank you._ "

"Then I will teach you and your brother. Or I will teach you, so that you may teach Sam, if you would prefer that. I am glad to be of help, to ease your mind on this matter." Castiel doesn’t smile often – the small slivers of grins and that one mind-numbingly brightly blazing full-on smile Sam’s received from the angel are precious partially because such expressions of unguarded humor and happiness are so rare on Castiel’s face – and he’s inclining his head again so Sam can’t really see enough of his face to know if the hint of movement there he’s picking up with his one squinting eye corresponds with anything like a smile or not. But there’s a lightness in Castiel’s voice that suggests joy, and Sam finds himself breathing easier because of it.

Dean’s voice becomes momentarily serious. "I meant what I said, earlier. You don’t have to do all of this angel-fu mojo-powered crap to be helpful, Cas. I’m happy just to have you here. Although," he adds, voice lightening, becoming almost playful in its teasing quality, "I seem to remember a couple of talks about personal space. You know touching people pretty much falls under the same category, right?"

Castiel’s eyes fly wide, and he flinches backwards, dropping Dean’s wrist as though he’s been burned. "I – I am sorry if I have behaved inappropriately. I did not mean to discomfort you. I thought – "

"Hey, _hey_ , it’s alright, okay? Don’t go all freaky and confused on me, alright?" Dean hastily insists, voice a jumbled mix of earnestness and reassurance (the offer of comfort almost tangible) and barely restrained worry."It’s been a long day. And a fuckin’ long week, even if most of it wasn’t real. It’s alright. Really. Okay?" Dean continues, stepping forward and closing most of the distance between them, and (to Sam’s shock) reaching out to lay a tentative hand on Castiel’s shoulder. "Just – just remember to be careful about who you touch and how, in the future, alright? I know you usually avoid being around other people and – unless you’re doing your angel-fu thing to burn a demon out of existence – you usually manage not to get close enough to anybody to touch, even with the whole standing too close for comfort thing you’ve got going on most of the time. Just, you hafta be careful, alright?" he demands, shaking Castiel’s shoulder just a little for emphasis. "We don’t want anybody having screaming hysterics because you grabbed a hand or touched a shoulder at the wrong moment. It’s like the thing at the station. You don’t tell people too much truth and you don’t touch unless you’re pretty damn sure they want you to touch them or are at least alright with the idea of being touched, even if all you’re trying to do is give somebody a little bit of comfort."

"I – " Castiel looks and sounds shocked, like he’s not sure if he should take either Dean’s words or the obviously affectionate and concerned touch at face value, and Sam nearly swallows his tongue, biting back on the completely inappropriate urge (he’s supposed to be asleep. Asleep, dammit, _asleep_ , not stupidly drawing attention to the fact that he’s faking and listening to every word the two say!) to shout at him to not look a gift horse in the mouth. Luckily, Castiel seems to instinctively understand the sentiment. "I promise that I will be as careful as I am able. There are some leads that I should investigate – "

Dean starts talking immediately, rapidly, the promise of a threat (the _you do something stupid and I will fucking destroy whatever is after you and then I will hurt you for being so goddamned careless and stupid_ kind of threat that Sam’s gotten pretty much all his life) lurking behind every word. " _Don’t_ be a stranger. And for God’s sake, don’t do anything _stupid_! You call for help, even if you’re not sure you’re going to need it, you understand me? You have a phone. You _use it_ , and you come and get me and Sam if you need anything. _Anything_ , got it? None of that getting yourself ripped to shreds shit. And don’t you _dare_ let Zachariah hurt you. You promise me, Cas. _Promise me._ Or your leads are just gonna hafta wait until Sam and I figure out how the fuck we’re supposed to work together again, after all this shit. You got me?"

Castiel inclines his head again, more deeply than the previous times, something about the gesture somehow striking Sam as gentle and forbearing, despite its formality. "I understand. I promise I will remain in touch. And I will be careful. And I promise I will come to you, if I so much as suspect that I may require assistance."

"Good. That’s – that’s good. You just remember all that, okay?"

"I will remember, Dean. But I would like to ask for something in return, if I may," is Castiel’s at first quite firm and then oddly hesitant response.

Dean goes still again for a moment, before shrugging and saying, "Shoot."

Castiel’s voice promptly goes back to a combination of almost painful earnestness and a little bit scary intentness. "There are things that I could teach you and your brother that could be of use to you – wards, protective symbols, summoning and binding circles, and more, much of it similar in nature to the sigils that bind demons and that are concealing you and your brother from angels. I would like to ask that you at least consider agreeing to learn these things. _Please._ The knowledge may very well help to keep you safe."

Sam has just enough time to register the very odd sensation of realizing that the angel is giving Dean the kind of wide and pleading eyes that he’s spent a lifetime perfecting (and still doesn’t always manage to get right) and that Dean is neither rolling his eyes nor pulling one of those huffy exasperated faces he does whenever he’s about to tell Sam "no" in twenty-five foul words or less. Then he’s having the rug yanked from under him yet _again_ (and he’s starting to see a pattern emerging here, and it should make him happier than it is, probably, but it’s freakin’ _scary_ to see Dean acting so very unlike his usual self, even – perhaps especially – for Castiel) as Dean sighs, pats the angel’s shoulder, and quietly acquiesces. "Okay. I’ll think about it. If I can talk to Sam about it without it leading to World Wars III through XXVIII and he thinks it’s a good idea, I’ll probably even agree. But I want you to know it’ll be under protest. I fuckin’ _hate_ magic, Cas. And this sounds a _lot_ like magic, to me."

Cas actually reaches up and touches the hand still on his shoulder without making Dean flinch away, and Sam’s just about sure he’s reached his limit on miracles for the day, so he shuts his eye just in time for the angel to start talking, and promptly has to slit it open again, if only because he’s truly interested in what Castiel’s saying.

"They are not magic in the sense that you think of magic. Like the original Devil’s Trap, they are adaptations of angelic script – adaptations meant to make the power of the symbols and the words they represent a tool suitable for use by humans, who are so much more fragile, physically, than angels. The symbols themselves represent certain . . . symmetries found with God’s creation. They represent forces of balance, of order, of creation . . . the true reality of things, as made so by God’s will. It is . . . difficult to explain, in words such as these. But it is not magic, not as you think of it. It is . . . a form of universal Grace, if you will. A way to call upon that power, to harness it and turn it towards certain ends, most of them revolving around the fighting of demons and the protection of humanity from demons. The angels of my garrison and I were among those who first taught these protective sigils and wards to humanity, to the Nephilim who were able to carry within them the power and Grace of angels and were willing to join the Hosts of Heaven in the battle against both the Legions of Lucifer and the many other forms of evil plaguing the Earth. The Nephilim were the first of what you would deem hunters, Dean. Much of the lore has been passed down. Some has been lost to humanity’s memory. Some has been altered almost beyond recognition. But many of the tools you and other hunters like you use in your battles stems from the sharing of that knowledge."

"Huh." Dean actually sounds almost as thoughtful as he does surprised, and Sam has a moment to really wish he’d just given in to that urge and fallen asleep before his brother came out of the bathroom before Dean starts talking again. "Alright. Fair enough. You’ll probably have to explain some more about that whole Nephilim bit sometime – what I remember reading about those things doesn’t exactly seem to mesh with what you’re saying and Sam’s probably the world’s biggest geek, and it’ll drive him nuts if you don’t tell him more about them – but for right now I think I’m just gonna take you at your word on all that. If Sam agrees, I’ll agree, too. Just – not now, alright? It’s late. I’m tired. And as much as I hate to resort to chick-flick talk, Sam and I kinda need a chance to try to figure out everything that’s broken between us before we worry about anything as powerful and potentially dangerous as what you’re talking about. That good enough for you, for now?"

Another deep bow of the head, and Castiel acknowledges, "It will suffice, yes. For now."

Dean’s lips quirk into a crooked little grin and he pats the angel’s shoulder again, affably, telling him, "That’s good. ’Cause I’m sorry, Cas, but right now? That’s all I can offer you."

Castiel’s head tilts just enough to let Sam see the soft, almost infinitesimally tiny curve of his lips. "It is enough. It is more than enough. Thank you."

Dean makes a quiet scoffing noise. "Dude, I’m really the one who should be thanking you, here. But whatever. ’M too tired to argue about it now. Can we maybe continue this later?"

"Of course. You should sleep. Rest as much as you are able. Everything else can wait."

Dean’s eyes crinkle faintly at the edges with the force of his smile – it’s not the brain-hurting blaze that Castiel’s is, but it’s blinding in a whole other way, and it makes Sam have to bite down hard on the inside of his lower lip, to keep from grinning, too, in automatic response to such an expression of purely contented happiness on his face. His free hand scratches idly at his stomach, making that stripe of bare skin between tee-shirt hem and pants momentarily grow wide enough for a glimpse of his Adam’s girdle (which makes Sam hastily avert his eye, though not quite before he can notice the way Castiel’s eyes widen as they follow Dean’s motion), and then he pats Castiel’s shoulder again, yawning, before turning towards his bed. "G’night, Cas. Be careful out there. Don’t forget to call. And, hey? You can visit, you know. Me and Sammy, we need to fix this. But that doesn’t mean you hafta leave altogether. Stay in touch, okay?"

"Yes. I will, Dean. You needn’t worry about that. You can sleep, now," Castiel promises, voice not just low but soft, gentle, almost loving, and Dan yawns again before nodding tiredly, in quiet agreement. Castiel turns to watch as Dean crawls into his bed, burrowing under the covers and automatically reaching for the weapon tucked under the pillows. The expression on his face is so open, so unabashedly tender, that Sam immediately closes his one open eye again, to give the angel at least an illusion of privacy. He hears the rustle of fabric (and maybe something else, something that sounds a lot like feathers), and then Castiel whispers, almost too quietly to be heard, "Sleep, Dean. Sleep deeply, and without dreams."

 _That_ startles Sam, and he’s pushed himself over and struggled up onto his elbows, a protest on his lips, before it occurs to him to worry that Castiel may not have actually been using his angel-mojo to send Dean into a warded deep sleep. By the time he’s finished blinking the tiredness out of his eyes, Castiel’s already standing next to his bed, doing that trick where he somehow manages to loom, even though his human form isn’t really all that tall for a guy (especially when compared to Sam). "Wha’ – ?"

A faint line appears in the angel’s forehead, but his voice is less foreboding than it is chiding when he speaks. "I have been told it isn’t polite to listen to others’ conversations, Sam."

Sam half shrugs and half scowls, eyes falling to the tangle of sheets around his waist. "I was worried. He was in there a long time. I wasn’t expecting you to be here. And, well . . . " Sam sighs, scrubs a hand through messy damp hair, and then awkwardly adds, "I worry about you and him. I wanted to make sure you were both going to be alright, given the topic of conversation."

Castiel’s face softens, that almost curve of a smile returning. "I believe the conversation went well – far better than I had dared to hope it would. Do you not agree?"

Sam gives him a little lopsided smile in response, even though his head still hurts (and he feels more than a little bewildered) from the whole darn conversation, and agrees, "Yeah. It went well. Really well. I’m proud of you. You did good. You got him to believe you and more."

Castiel doesn’t smile, but his eyes crinkle as though he were grinning, and he looks so delighted that Sam finds his own smile automatically widening a little in response. "I am quite pleased. I did not think he would agree to even contemplate learning the symbols. Knowing that there is a cure to the demonic virus must have lifted his spirits immensely. I am glad to have been able to do that, for him."

"Yeah, well, I’m glad that there’s a cure for that, too. That plague? That’s some nasty shit, Cas. Zachariah’s even more of a sadist then I thought, putting something like that into whatever the hell it was he did to Dean. I really think I’m going to have to hurt him, for that."

Castiel’s bright face dims slightly, eyes hardening, but his voice is still surprisingly light when he says, "I am glad that you are glad and sorry that I must agree with you on the subject of my unworthy brother, who has become as a rabid dog with his obsession with war. It grieves me that he has fallen so far and taken so many with him. But all is not yet lost. There is still time to save some of my brethren and to return the Hosts of Heaven to the side of righteousness. There is still time to save the Earth and to stop the Apocalypse, stop Lucifer. You _must_ believe that, Sam. There is still time. There is still hope. We will find God, and we will find another way to defeat Lucifer. I have faith that we will."

Sam’s heart twists a little, because after the whole thing with Lucifer showing up in his dreams and impersonating Jessica? Yeah, he’s not so sure that he has the same unwavering faith in the idea that there’s a way out of this (painfully literally) damned mess anymore, even though he desperately wants to, even though he’s steeled himself to embracing the task of defeating Lucifer, even though he is painfully aware that he has promised Castiel that they will succeed at this task and is more than willing to give anything ( _everything_ ) to ensure that this promise will be kept and sometimes believes that if he can just hold on long enough and do something right for a change and help Dean and Castiel figure out that they’ve, well, pretty much mostly already become _Dean-and-Castiel_ for a reason that they’ll actually manage to pull it off and _win this thing_. So his smile slips and twists a little bit out of true, even though he can practically feel the waves of faith and hope and that muted but powerful semi-subliminal and semi-tangible love- _love_ - **love** - ** _love_** - ** _love_** pouring out of Castiel, washing up against him like waves against a beach (or a particularly stubborn boulder in the way of the beach, maybe). "We’ll fight until our last breaths and beyond, if we have to, to stop Lucifer," he acknowledges. "We will, Cas. We’ll fight until we win, ’cause no one else is gonna."

The angel’s blue eyes soften, sadness creeping in around the corners of them. "You are a good man, Sam. A righteous man. Much like your brother. Please, hold tight to hope."

"I’m trying. I promise I am. I won’t let go."

"Good." Castiel gives him one of those small slivers of smiles – the ones that make him go slightly wonky and soft and floaty and _good_ around the edges, that make him feel like the world really is a good place and angels are imbued with the divine and everything is going to be alright because God _has_ to still be out there somewhere if He’s smiling on Dean like this, by giving him a treasure as precious and as bright and beautiful and strong and good and full of grace (and Grace, what it means to truly be an angel, what _all_ angels should hope to be like) as Cas – and inclines his head, almost as if in prayer. "That is good, little brother. I am heartened to hear that. I would hear more, but you need your rest. You should sleep while you can. This . . . is not going to be easy for you. Or Dean."

Sam’s lips quirk as he thinks to himself, _Understatement of the year, that. Possibly the decade. Maybe even the century._ "I know. But we’ll do it. Like Dean said, we’ll fix this. One way or another. Eventually. But yeah, you’re right. Sleep would be good. Can you – ?"

"Yes."

It takes him a few beats to place the quality in Castiel’s voice for what it is: compassion. Part of him – the part of him that’s entirely too much like his father, and his brother – wants to kick up a fuss and spit in the face of such kindness. The rest of him just relaxes back against the bed, relief flooding his body as part of that feeling of crushing foreboding and threatening hopelessness and the seemingly ever-present threat of despair lighten, lift away, dissipate under the brightness that is the angel. His eyes are wet and shining and he knows Dean would laugh and call him a girl, but he just can’t find it in him to care, anymore, as he whispers, "Thank you."

"You are welcome, little brother." Castiel steps a little closer, hand extended, two fingers raised in a familiar sign of approaching benediction. "Sleep, Sam. Sleep deeply, sleep safely, and without dreams."

He has an instant, when fingertips brush with aching gentleness against his forehead, to think of his brother – to think of when he was still young enough for Dean to tuck him into bed every night, small hands comforting and warm and reassuring as he folded covers and blankets around his little brother and silently professed devotion and love with every motion, even while his mouth spoke only of sleeping and pleasant dreams – before, smiling, he slides down into the waiting darkness.

He is neither relaxed nor smiling nor reassured when next he sees Castiel, though.

He is dreaming; he is wound so tightly that his whole body aches with it, muscles all vibrating with tension (like a crossbow with the tension cranked far too high, pulled so tight that any motion threatens breaking); he is desperate with fear and sick with frustrated fury and all but choking on the ashen taste of disappointment; and he could gladly, gladly beat an enemy to death – preferably Zachariah, though he’d take just about anyone (and would really, _really_ take his time if someone would bring Ruby back for a more . . . _suitable_ death) – with his bare hands.

The motel room is familiar but not quite right for the place he and his brother are actually staying. He paces in the small space between and around the two rumpled beds with undisguised agitation, hands alternating between clenching tightly at his sides, pummeling the one into the other, and scrubbing up across his face and back through his hair. He’s so distracted – so upset – that he’s not even aware of the fact that he’s waiting for someone to show until he hears the voice, quietly saying, "Sam. Is it anything I can help with?"

He whirls to see the angel – familiar messy windswept hair and loosely knotted, slightly crooked tie, compact body made to seem somehow bigger through a combination of sheer power and rumpled trench coat – for once not standing behind him but instead sitting on the foot of the second bed, the one nearest the door, the one Dean always takes (unless Sam insists otherwise for some reason), so he can put himself between Sam and anything or anyone who might try to come through that door.

The laugh that burbles up from within him at the offer is so bitter he nearly chokes on it, and it has a ragged, jagged edge as it overflows from his mouth out into the room. Desultorily – though his voice is soon rising with frustrated anger – he replies, "I don’t know, Cas. I don’t know that anyone can help. I don’t know what fuck I’m supposed to do. Why am I even _here_? He obviously doesn’t want me here! _Nothing’s_ changed! He still treats me like an idiot child – like I’m some kid too young to know any better about anything and too much of a moron to be trusted to make any decisions! And he _obviously_ doesn’t trust me as far as he could throw me! He won’t talk to me about _anything_! How the fuck am I supposed to warn him about Lucifer or talk to him about that prick Zachariah or anything when he _refuses_ to talk to me? Half the time it’s like he’s pretending none of this crap has even happened, and half the time he’s off talking to Bobby behind my back about how unstable and untrustworthy I am!"

"Sam – "

"I don’t know what to do! We’re out here chasing about freakin’ ghosts when it’s the End of freakin’ Days? What the _hell_ , Cas? Is he _that_ scared of me? Is he that worried I’m gonna freak out and start hunting up demons to drain of their blood? What the _fuck_? Why did he even tell me to come, if he’s not even willing to _try_? I _want_ to fix this, but – "

"Sam. _Please._ I know you are upset, but – "

"Upset? _Upset!_ For God’s sake, Cas, he has us out here hunting a goddamned ghost that might not even be _real_ while Lucifer’s out there doing God only know what and – !"

" _Samuel._ You _cannot_ imagine that this is easy for Dean. He is trying, very hard, to do the right thing for the both of you, as well as the right thing for this world. Please try to keep in mind that the vision Zachariah showed Dean very likely was of a future where you had consented to becoming Lucifer’s vessel, half the world or more was ravaged by the demonic plague created by Croatoan, Dean had resorted to torture to get answers from the captured possessed, and I was no longer myself. You and agreed previously that this is most likely to be what happened. _Think_ , for a moment, on what that would mean, to your brother. And think too, if you will, on what he has suffered, since being returned to Earth."

Castiel’s voice is hard – harder than he can ever remember it being, even in the hospital with Bobby, when he spoke so furiously of all that he had given and lost and done, for Dean, only to have Dean fail to stop Sam from breaking that final Seal and letting Lucifer out – but Sam’s a little bit too angry to heed the warning. He tries to protest, angrily insisting, "He’s not the only one who’s suffered because of this! I – "

The angel is off the bed and standing in front of him between one heartbeat and the next, his hands rigidly jammed into his pockets (as though hiding them, thus, is the only way to keep himself from reaching out and hurting Sam), glaring up at him with an expression so affronted and disappointed and blatantly protective of his brother that Sam flinches backwards and nearly swallows his own tongue, in his haste to shut up and backpedal from what he’s been saying.

"You suffered, yes, but whatever you have been through, Sam, it is _nothing_ compared to what your brother has been through. Dean surrendered his soul to Hell, to save your life, and returned, after spending decades in one of the lowest levels of Perdition, to find that you had broken your promise to no longer using your powers and were traveling the country with that demon, Ruby. Ruby turned you, Sam, and you let her. You had good intentions, yes, I know, but the fact remains that you turned your back on your brother – you injured Bobby Singer, in order to escape, and then you injured your brother, too, when he came after you – and chose to go with her, with a _demon_ , instead of trusting your family to help you. You broke the last Seal necessary to release Lucifer from his prison, when you used your powers to kill Lilith, and then you pulled away and left your brother again, when events conspired to show you how vulnerable you might still be to the potential for evil within you. In the face of so many mistakes, can you truly blame him, for having difficulty trusting you and your stability, your reliability? Can you even truly blame him, for resorting to picturing you as the little brother he must protect at all costs, as you are still too young and inexperienced to be able to do so properly yourself, so that he can work with you again?"

Quietly (feeling a little kid being torn a new one by his dad for something he more than deserves to be reamed out for, for once), he admits, "No. No, I can’t. But Cas, if we’re going to do this – if we’re going to have even a chance of doing this – I need him to – "

"He is _trying_ , Sam," Castiel only insists, some of the disappointment and anger leaving his eyes, but the protectiveness still blazing as bright as watchfires against the night. "If you want him to be able to see you in some other way and still trust you enough to work with you, then you must be the one to give him a reason to do so. Dean has taken care of you for essentially his whole life, Sam. Your father trusted him to be the one to take care of you, and he has grown thinking of himself primarily as your protector and caregiver. It is . . . difficult for him to think of you as his equal, rather than as someone he should be taking care of, when you have given him so little reason, of late, to consider as an equal in this battle. If you need for him to do so – and Sam, I do understand why you need that. I think it would be best for you both, if Dean could stop thinking of you so much as his little brother, to be protected at all costs, and if you could stop thinking of Dean so much as your big brother, to be vied with and measured against, as if your father were still here and had a right to pass judgment on the worth and worthiness of you both, and if you could both start to see each other more as adults and allies working together to stop the Apocalypse and send Lucifer back to his prison – then you need to tell him so and give him reason to accommodate your wish."

Less stridently, Sam attempts to point out, "But he’s so stubborn about – !"

Castiel sighs, quietly, shoulders relaxing almost to the point of slumping, as he gently interrupts. "Sam. I do not believe you understand how difficult it would be for him to see you as an adult, even if the events of the past few years had not transpired as they have. He is the one who essentially raised you. From the moment he carried you out of that burning house, you have been his responsibility, and he has never truly relinquished that. He is as much parent as he is brother, whether you realize it or not. You _must_ take that into consideration, before you judge him for his behavior towards you."

"I’m twenty-six, not a six-year-old! He’s only four years older than I am!"

Castiel shakes his head. "That does not matter. He is older. You were a baby, when your mother was killed. He is the one who has, by and large, taken care of you, since then. And he still takes care of you. You have permitted him to do so for so long – including most of the five years that have passed since you rejoined him on the hunt, since Azazel killed Jessica Moore – that he does not understand why you seem to resent him so for attempting to do the same, now. You must tell him that you are only striving to be his equal so that you can be of the most possible help during this battle, so that you can be an independent adult worthy of being his ally, or he will not understand that you are not simply trying to leave him again. You know, surely, that your brother has abandonment issues," he adds, the inflection of his voice making it not so much question as a pointed reminder, eyes narrowed as though to warn Sam not to be foolish.

Sam immediately deflates, anger leaving him in a rush and shame flooding back in to replace it. "I know. That’s – a lot of that’s my fault. I wasn’t thinking of him, when I left for Stanford. I just – I wanted so much to get out of the life, to have a chance at a normal life, and the school was offering me a way out on a silver platter, and I – I – I was selfish," he admits, voice cracking. "I shouldn’t’ve done it. I shouldn’t’ve left him there alone with Dad. I should’ve known better. You can’t stop being who you are, just because you’re angry at your family and fate for not giving you more of a choice. Bad things happen and it’s nobody’s fault but the evil things that cause them. Dad did the best he knew how to do. And I can’t – I don’t dare fault him for what he did. Hell, I did pretty much the same thing, after Azazel killed Jess. It’d be disingenuous of me to say he’s a monster, for having done that to us when we were too small to make the decision for ourselves, when I know I would’ve done the same thing, in his place."

"So you understand?" Castiel asks, voice gentling some, gaining a note of hopefulness.

"I – yeah. I get it. I’ll – I’ll figure out a way to talk to him about it. Even if I have to just blurt it all out and keep repeating myself until he _has_ to listen to me."

"Good. That is very good, Sam. Thank you for understanding," Castiel tells him, voice fervent with gratitude and relief.

Sam shrugs, scratching his head so he won’t have to look at those too big blue eyes, and mutters, "Least I can do. You’re right, you know. I don’t know what Hell’s like. And I don’t want to know, either. And I’m pretty sure that I only still have that option because of Dean."

"Sam, you are a – "

" – good man, yeah, I know you think that. But right now I’m afraid I’m kinda stuck on the _selfish idiot who’s trying to be good but still fails a lot_ end of the spectrum," Sam interrupts to explain, lips thinning as he swallows back another bitter laugh.

"You are also trying. That says more of the nature and strength and basic goodness of your character than anything else. Others would not bother to try. Others would have given in at the first sign of pressure or danger. Others would have chosen to run, after what happened to Jessica, and to hide themselves away and pretend as though nothing paranormal or at all out of the ordinary were happening. Others would have given in to Lucifer without even making him _try_ to win consent, first. _You are a good man, Samuel Winchester._ Believe _that_ , if you believe nothing else. So long as you hold to that and to hope and to your family, it should be enough to see you through the struggles to come," Castiel promises, voice achingly gentle now.

Sam’s instinct is to lash out, push away, insist that he’s not good and that he doesn’t deserve Castiel’s compassion or forgiveness or understanding, but the angel’s eyes are so big and pleading and earnest that he can’t make himself do or say anything that might bring pain to those eyes. "I – alright. I’ll – I’ll try, Cas. I’ll try, and I’ll do the best I can. I promise I will."

The angel shocks him by reaching up to pat his shoulder reassuringly, the gesture obviously mimicked from Dean’s earlier action with him. "It is enough. It is _more_ than enough. Have faith. You will see."

"I’m trying," he repeats, not bothering to hide his plaintiveness.

The hand on his shoulder tightens the barest bit, at that, the heat of Castiel’s hand seeping through his layers of shirts to spread down into his skin and out through his body, almost as if he were being held in a warm embrace. "I know you are. As does your brother. Talk to him, Sam. It will make things far easier for you both."

"Alright. I will. I promise. Just – you’ll come again, if it goes wrong, won’t you?"

"I will come. I will always come, Sam. My place is at your brother’s side, and I will do everything in my power to remain there for as long as I am able," Cas immediately promises.

"Okay. I believe you. I’ll – I’ll do my best," Sam promises in turn. "And I’ll try to get him to talk to me about whatever made him call me and tell me to come back. I know you talked a little about what Zachariah did, but it’ snot enough. There’s more he needs to talk about, if he’s not going to brood over it endlessly. And I know he promised to ask about the sigils and such. If we’re really talking again, maybe he’ll finally get around to bringing it up. Alright?"

"That would be good. You are still warding your sleep, aren’t you?" Castiel asks, concerned, head tilting sideways to allow him to peer upwards at Sam a little bit more closely.

Sam nods. "Yes. He doesn’t seem to’ve noticed, yet. I’ll bring that up, too, so you won’t have to do it for him every time he goes to sleep, okay?"

"I would appreciate that. It will be safer for you both, if you needn’t rely on me for such safety. The leads I am pursuing are . . . complex," Castiel explains a little hesitantly.

"’S cool. Better safe than sorry. If the talk goes well, I’ll see about bringing that up, too. I doubt he’ll protest. It freaked the ever-living crap out of him, the first couple times you did the whole walking into his dreams thing. I didn’t know what was going on, at the time, but later, when I found out, in retrospect it was pretty obvious that the idea of somebody being able to do that really bothered him. He’ll probably do it, just so he won’t have to worry about anyone else showing up unexpectedly," Sam replies reassuringly, giving the angel a small smile.

"That would be best," is Castiel’s relieved response. "His sleep patterns are so irregular, at times, that I worry I will miss one of his naps and one of my brothers will find him, then."

"Won’t happen. I’ll see to it. Trust me, okay?"

"I do trust you, Sam. I know you will do everything in your power to protect Dean."

Sam shrugs, looking away again. "He’s my brother," he gruffly points out.

"And you care for him a great deal, as he does for you. I know. But it is not always that way, with families. I am glad that it is so, with the two of you."

Sam blinks at him, startled and incredulous. "Even though he – ?"

Flatly, Castiel insists, "Yes. Love is God’s greatest gift to us. It gladdens me that the bond you share with your brother is so strong. He has you to lean on, in these trying times."

"He has you too, Cas," Sam points out, voice gentling, surprised (and amused) when the angel looks down and away (much as Sam’s been doing), as though embarrassed.

The angel’s voice trembles just ever so slightly (reminding Sam just how powerful and how deep Castiel’s emotions seem to run, when his brother is concerned) as he admits, "I am glad that you believe so. I wish to be of service to him. I am trying to help as much as I can."

"You’re doing a good job, Cas. We wouldn’t’ve made it this far, without you."

If Castiel were a human, Sam’s certain he would’ve blushed. "It gladdens my heart to be of service to you both. I will do all that I can. If you will do so, as well, then together I believe we can help your brother see this through to the end."

Sam nods. "I know you do. And I’m glad of that. I promise I won’t stop trying. Just don’t you give up either, okay? No matter what happens, Cas. You keep searching for God until you find Him. And we’ll do everything we can to help you. Alright?"

"That is more than alright. It is, quite possibly, a small miracle. Thank you, Sam."

Sam’s lips quirk. "Probably a pretty big miracle, all things considered. If we can just get your brothers to stop screwing around with us, maybe we’ll even be able to put it to good use."

"I have faith that we will," Castiel instantly affirms, head bowing low.

Sam lets his smile deepen, shaking his head a little at the angel, fondly. "I know. Pity all of the angels can’t be as good or as loyal as you. Things never would’ve gotten this bad, if only they had half the faith you do."

This time, Castiel _does_ blush. "I am not perfect, Sam. I have limitations. And I have made mistakes that have cost us all dearly."

"But you were coerced into nearly all of them. And you’re actually trying to _help_ , unlike those other asses. That’s more than enough for me. And it’s more than enough for Dean, too."

Hesitantly, as though afraid of the answer he might receive, Castiel begins to ask, "Do you think your brother has begun to forgive me for – ?"

Sam almost laughs, before he sees the anxious expression in the angel’s eyes. "Dude. He’s forgiven me for _breaking the Devil out of Hell_. I think he’s probably forgiven you for being brainwashed and possibly tortured by those assholes into going along with them, given that you helped him when no one else would and got yourself killed for your troubles and all. Don’t worry about it, okay? Really. It’s alright. He wouldn’t be helping you now if he didn’t trust you enough to like you, and he wouldn’t trust you at all if he hadn’t already forgiven you for being a dick, after Zachariah dragged you off to Bible bootcamp or whatever it was. I know him well enough to know _that_ , at least. Okay? Trust me on this one. He’s already forgiven you."

Sam gets another one of those blinding bright slivers of smiles, for that, and the feeling of euphoria it brings wipes away the rest of the tension and tiredness and stress weighing him down. He’s smiling back, unabashedly, when Castiel tells him, "Thank you for that, Sam. Of course I will believe you. You know your brother well."

Sam laughs a little. "Well enough for this, anyway."

Castiel inclines his head. "Yes."

"Glad to be of help. You help me so much, it’s only fair I should try to help you, too."

Castiel looks slightly uncomfortable, at that declaration, but he inclines his head graciously enough. "As you say. Would you like . . . ?"

"Yes, please. If it’s not too much of a bother. I always sleep better, when you do," Sam admits, ducking his head in a mixture of shyness and sadness. "Nightmares don’t seem to care if my sleep’s warded against intruders or not."

"I understand. It grieves me that my brothers have caused you such pain and worry."

Sam shrugs, sighing. "’S not your fault. And you’re trying helping us. That means a lot, Cas. Not many people can ever be bothered to help. It’s good of you to do this. Wherever God is, I’m sure He must know that."

Castiel bows his head, eyes averted. "As you say, Sam."

"I’m _serious_ about that," Sam insists, a little perplexed by the angel’s discomfort with the subject. "I’ll tell Him myself, if I have to. And I know Dean would, too, if it came down to that. We’re not afraid to speak the truth. And you’re a good guy. You don’t deserve all this crap."

"I . . . _try_ to be good, as you say. I have faith that my Father would support my decision to help you and your brother. The path the two of you choose to walk now is far more righteous than that of my brethren. And I will not deny that Dean has come to mean far more to me than a charge entrusted to my care, my guidance and protection. I am trying to do only what I know feels right to me. But I know that I have been weak and misled in the past. I know that I have done wrong. And I know that I may yet do wrong again, without the voice of my Father to guide me. Yet, I am, as you say, trying. And I will continue to do so for as long as I am able to," Castiel promises, eyes flickering back to Sam’s face at the last, determination in them like a fire.

"That’s all we can ask. It’s more than we can ask, really. You’re kinda a miracle yourself, in the midst of all this crap. You know that, right?" Sam asks, peering closely at the angel.

Again, Castiel colors ever so slightly, clearly embarrassed. "I am only doing what I must, to be true to myself and to God."

Sam shrugs, but insists, "It’s more than any of the other angels can be bothered to do."

"Many of them do not yet realize how far from God’s truth their superiors have fallen. I have said so before, and it is no less true now than then. We must do something about that, if we can. They deserve the right to know the truth," Castiel immediately counters.

"If we can tell them without getting ourselves captured or killed, we’ll help get the word out. But only if it’s safe, Cas. If they’re too stupid to realize something’s wrong and if they’d hurt you if you tried to talk to them, they aren’t worth the trouble. I’m sorry to put it that way – I know they’re your brethren and your friends, too – but it’s true. This fight’s too important to risk you that way. Dean’d tell you the same thing, if you asked him," Sam replies, holding Castiel’s eyes to make sure he understands Sam’s telling him the truth.

After a moment’s hesitation, Castiel allows, "I will not foolishly or needlessly endanger myself." Leaning a little closer – the hand on Sam’s shoulder tightening just a tad more, blue eyes narrowing – he then adds, " It would ease my mind a great deal if I could believe that you and Dean would attempt the same."

Sam smiles at him wryly, shrugging. "We can only promise to try. Some things are kinda hardwired, after so many years. Especially with Dean. He’s kinda got this whole saving people thing going on, in case you haven’t noticed."

Castiel sighs as he inclines his head slightly in acknowledgment. "I have noticed as much, yes. If you would both agree to _try_ to be careful, I would still feel much better about spending so much time away from you."

"I promise I’ll try. And I’ll try to get Dean to agree to try, too, okay?"

He gets another one of those bare glimmers of bright smile. "I appreciate that a great deal, Sam. Thank you. Are you ready, now? Is there anything else?"

"I don’t know of anything else. Thanks for the help, Cas. It always seems to help, when I can talk with you like this. I really appreciate it." Daring greatly, Sam reaches up and touches the hand on his shoulder, patting it briefly, fondly.

Castiel almost smiles at him again, clearly touched by the gesture. "I am glad to help. I hope to continue to be of help, in the days to come. Some day soon, I hope the three of us will be able to travel together, as well as stand together against Lucifer and his demons and the other evils that walk the Earth."

"I’d like that, Cas. I hope it happens, too."

"Thank you, Sam. Until then, you should rest and gather your strength." Castiel gestures towards the bed further from the door, knowing that it’s meant to be Sam’s bed.

With a smile, he turns and makes his way over to it, peeling off the old flannel shirt he’s apparently thrown on over the tee-shirt and flannel pants he plans to sleep in, in the dream, and placing it on the back of the chair at the desk where his laptop’s sitting, waiting for him to use. After he’s crawled under the covers, Castiel joins him, standing over him like Dad used to do, like Dean used to do, gazing down at him with a soft expression of fondness as he tells him, "G’night, Cas."

"Goodnight to you as well, little brother. Sleep well, Sam. Sleep deeply, and safely, and without dreams."

The touch to his forehead makes him think of Dean (of being tucked into bed, of being comforted after nightmares, of being seen to, when sick. It makes him think about what an idiot he is, to’ve not realized before that Dean has kinda raised him and taken care of him as if he were his child and not just his little brother. It makes him think that he needs to do better, to make up for things like that, and try harder, to pay Dean back for all of those years of care and protection. And it makes him think that he needs to try harder, to see things from Dean’s point of view instead of always going solely on what he sees and feels and wants), and so he’s smiling (if a little bit sheepishly, over what a moron he’s been) as he lets the angel’s power push him smoothly down into the warm, dark, quiet embrace of sleep.

Tomorrow, he’ll do his level best to talk to Dean and to fix this problem.

Tomorrow, he’ll do what he can to get Dean to open up and talk to him, about Zachariah and his fears and everything else that’s been going on, while he’s either been away or so screwed up by Ruby and the demon blood that he didn’t even realize have of the crap that was going on.

Tomorrow, he and his brother are going to make a real (a fresh) start, not just at being a family again, but at being allies and equal and hunters again, if it’s the last damn thing Sam does.

Maybe then, if they’re both willing to try, Castiel will be proven right after all, and it will be enough to see them through this and the three of them can start working together properly.

And maybe, if they’re lucky, they’ll figure out a way to wake enough of the Hosts of Heaven up to clue them in to what’s really going on, and then they can repay Zachariah and all of those other faithless sadistic pricks who wanted a war so badly that they were willing to do _anything_ to get one – even if it meant turning away from God and manipulating humans into letting Lucifer out of his cage – by starting a revolution in Heaven and giving them a _real_ fight.

Then maybe they’ll have enough power on their side to finally go after Lucifer.

Crazier things have happened. And, as someone once said, hope springs eternal. It won’t hurt anything for him to hope. Maybe, it might even help.

Who knows? God just might even wake up enough to notice what’s going on and decide to do something about it, if enough of them are all hoping and praying for the same thing.

Crazier things have been known to happen, when the Winchesters are involved . . .

*********

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

**Author's Note:**

>  **Author’s Notes: 4).** _(Continued as promised!)_
> 
> I can’t even begin to guess what this darn muse thinks she’s doing – I spent most of season four actively _avoiding_ embracing this possible ship, mainly due to the fact that (back then) it (mostly) seemed to be painfully one-sided (on top of which, frankly, it disturbs the ever living crap out of me to even approach the notion of a God who would _deliberately_ send an angel to a human, all the while knowing that the essential nature of the two beings involved could only result in pain, Dean too scarred by his life/afterlife/second life to even be able to recognize love and faith when it is offered to him and Castiel having no choice – as a creature whose sole purpose is essentially to experience love and to glorify the divine and faithfully praise God by worshiping all of His creation – _but_ to love) – but I’ve learned that it’s generally futile to resist a muse.
> 
> Given that plus the fact that there just might be more going on underneath the surface of Dean and Castiel’s . . . relationship than is immediately obvious and that Kripke et al might deliberately be using the connection between Dean and Castiel – the choice Castiel made, in Dean’s favor, and the reasons why, and the possibility that Dean might one day choose Castiel (and, by extension, his God) back, willingly, for reasons of his own – to enrich the show’s already hugely complex background and mythology, I’m finding myself having to seriously contemplate the possibility that Dean/Castiel could end up being the penultimate ship of the show . . . and that this probability would likely end up having a direct and profound impact on the ultimate outcome of the show, especially regarding the possibility that another way might be found to defeat Lucifer and avert the destruction of the Earth, so that Dean won’t be forced to give in to the faction of angels that, so far, has largely been represented by such amoral individuals as Zachariah and Raphael. 
> 
> Because of this, the Dean/Castiel ship – or at least some version of it – is rapidly becoming a lot more important to me. I honestly don’t know yet if I’m seeing things that are really there or not or what the hell I’m really doing, floundering about in this fandom, grasping at possible ways to smooth a path between Castiel and Dean. (I feel kind of like I’m stumbling around in the dark with an armful of nitroglycerin, which is more than a little disturbing.) 
> 
> The whole thing still kind of freaks me out – there are consent issues here that are just . . . freakin’ insane. _Angel of the Lord_ , y’all. Inherent lack of free will plus the whole created to worship and glorify and adore thing. And Dean Winchester, poster boy for, well, using free will as a convenient excuse to stomp all over monsters, demons, corporate angel asshats, and assorted other company – and I’m seriously, _seriously_ confounded by the fact that, while their connection so far largely seems to be more mental/spiritual or even emotional than physical (much less sexual), that handprint of Castiel’s is still blazoned on Dean’s arm like a mark of ownership, where he gripped him tight and raised him from perdition, not to mention worried as hell over the fact that, while Castiel appears to be becoming more human (especially this season), Dean’s capacity for self-blame and self-loathing are still such that any alteration to the angel’s apparent nature is (upon reflection) entirely too likely to make Dean panic over the possibility that he’s corrupted/lessened/damaged Castiel. 
> 
> So, in short (not to repeat myself or anything, _but_ ), I really have no clue what I’m doing here or where this story came from or why I seem to think it’s a good idea to pursue this crazy idea of mine (courtesy of my muse) in what is apparently a nascent between-the-scenes series in the making, given that it follows on the heels of the previous stories my insane muse bullied me into writing. I get the feeling that I’m going to end up regretting allowing myself to be bullied and pulling out handfuls of hair whilst trying to figure out what in the hell this thing really is and just what Dean and Castiel truly are to one another. In the meantime, though, since I’ve no intention of trying to puzzle this out any further right now, allow me to point out that, though this specific story (like the one preceding it) is canon-compliant up through the fifth episode of season five (at least to a point, inasmuch as it follows the events of the show), the between-the-scenes nature of the story means that it can, technically, also be read as AU. And, in any case, I have a strong suspicion that this story won’t precisely remain all that canon-compliant once the next episode has come out. So . . . readers might want to take this with a grain of salt. (In fact, freakin’ huge handfuls of salt might not be entirely out of line.) Okay?


End file.
